Torpedo (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 9) by Andy Maslen

Author:Andy Maslen [Maslen, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tyton Press
Published: 2019-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

32

A mobile phone rang. Ignatyev swung his head round, away from Eli. Her incoming hand stopped in midair.

“What the fuck?” Ignatyev said, sharply.

As Ignatyev got to his feet and went to retrieve his phone from a side table, Eli glanced at Gabriel. Her meaning was clear.

Now, what?

He gave a fractional shake of the head. Stay calm. Try again in a minute.

Ignatyev was standing, unsteadily, one hand stretched out and laid, palm-out against the wall.

“What did you say?” he asked, after listening for a dozen seconds, his voice suddenly clear and authoritative.

He shook his head.

“Impossible. They’re already here.”

He frowned.

“The lawyers! Two of them. They’re right here with me. I’m looking at them now.”

He turned and pointed, irrelevantly, at “Joe” and “Ellen.” He listened again, staring at Eli.

“OK. Do that.”

He ended the call. He didn’t return to his position as diabetic’s carer on the floor beside Eli.

Gabriel checked out the position of the Makarov. It lay on the end of the coffee table furthest away from Ignatyev. The pistol was the wrong way round for the Russian, and he’d have to lean right across the table to reach it.

He saw Ignatyev follow his gaze.

Ignatyev backed up until he hit the wall. He looked left and right, as if summoning help, but for now, at least, it was just the three of them.

Eli and Gabriel stood.

“You’re not with the Colombians,” Ignatyev rasped out. “That was my man in Moscow. Three of them just left Medellín. They’re coming here. Who the fuck are you?”

Gabriel leapt towards Ignatyev, aiming a blade-hand at the man’s throat. Simultaneously, Eli dived for him, syringe out in front, aiming for his neck. But the big Russian wasn’t ready to give in without a fight.

He ducked under Gabriel’s incoming blow, grabbed the narrow metal pole of a standard lamp and swung it like a bat at Eli’s torso.

Eli doubled over with a gasp as the aluminium rod caught her in the chest. The syringe shot from her fingers and skittered under a chair.

“Bastards!” Ignatyev yelled, aiming a huge fist at the side of Gabriel’s head.

His punch was wide of its target but connected with Gabriel’s left shoulder. Gabriel screamed with pain as the flesh compressed under the massive weight of the Russian’s fist.

Eli was on her belly, stretching out her right hand to get to the syringe. Ignatyev kicked her hard in the side. Gabriel saw her roll away from the blow. How was this drunk Russian besting them? It didn’t make sense. He let himself stagger backwards, fast, and deliberately hit the coffee table with his calves. Rolling over its polished surface, he grabbed for the Makarov, and snagged the grip just as he rolled off onto his knees.

He brought the pistol up and yelled at Ignatyev.

“Dvigajsya i ty pokojnik!” Move and you’re a dead man!

Ignatyev froze, his right leg lifted ready to stamp down on Eli’s stomach. The blow, had it landed, would have crushed internal organs, started massive haemorrhaging, and probably killed her.

She scrambled to her feet, gripping the syringe and plunged the needle into Ignatyev’s neck, just below the angle of his jaw.

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